


The Colin Firth Effect

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: Existential Crisis, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Open Marriage, Pining, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts on a lovely spring day when Taron gets an alert about how to win a date with Colin Firth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started out as a little joke with some tumblr friends, and spiraled into this. My apologies to Taron Egerton and Colin Firth, and also my IRL friends who follow me. I’ve never written RPF before, but then again, I never thought I’d ship anyone with such a large age difference (aka Eggsy and Harry). It’s a slippery slope, friends. (Let me start out by saying that I have virtually no idea how Colin and Taron live their lives.)
> 
> Thank you to yourefullofsurprises for beta-ing this!

Taron has accepted that, out of multiple theories in the universe, there is one undisputed fact.  
  
Colin Firth is universally attractive.   
  
He’s stopped worrying about it by now, almost six years after Kingsman. Sophie used to say that he was the most unsubtle berk, and Ed used to send him various videos of Taron gazing longingly at Colin, but the man seemed to have that effect on all on everyone, from actors to reporters to fans. Taron has seen interviews of gushing and praising, and he thinks, honestly, that he’s just one in a long line of starry-eyed co-stars.   
  
It had been an infatuation. He can admit that without shame, because it happened, it was a normal reaction, and he had been in his early twenties, for fuck’s sake.   
  
Satisfied with that easy explanation, Taron’s tucked it in a  _let's pretend this never_   _happened_ part of his mind, and carried on.   
  
If only.

* * *

It all starts on a lovely spring day when Taron gets an alert about how to win a date with Colin Firth.  
  
At first, Taron thinks it’s trolling. It has to be. But the evidence, right on Livia Firth’s Twitter, clearly states: “have a chance to get that date you’ve always wanted with Colin Firth by donating to his charity,” along with a link.   
  
Apparently, it’s like being a basket boy—lads standing on a stage in their Sunday best, and they all go, one by one, to the highest bidder out to someplace nice. Taron’s heard of stuff like this happening before, but he’d never thought—well, that it was a real life thing. His life, specifically.   
  
So Taron texts the man himself: _So, are you really going on a date with a fan? Stephen King would say this is a bad idea._  
  
Almost immediately—which is surprising, since Taron assumes he would be working or doing something important—Colin answers, _Perhaps. But since I haven’t personally killed off any characters, I’m safe._  
  
Taron laughs out loud. _You’re right—I guess Matthew was the one with the death threats after Kingsman._  
  
_Luckily for him that I came back.  
  
We couldn’t have sold the movie without you.   
  
Nonsense, don’t sell yourself short. Who’s the one involved in a tug-of-war between multiple studios? You’ve done six films since Kingsman in these short years, not to mention other projects. _  
  
Taron just sits there for a long time, before texting back: _Thanks_. Then, _By the way, you’re not nervous at all about this auction thing?  
  
Well, it’s for a good cause. But if I end up trapped in a cabin with my foot being chopped off, I’ll be sure to let you know that you were right. _  
  
Taron smirks. _That’s all I ask._   
  
He and Colin text for a while, until Colin tells him that he’s got plans for lunch and that he’ll talk to him later.   
  
As Taron texts, _yeah, see you, he notices something._  
  
His heart is beating wildly.   
  
Damn it.

* * *

Taron has made many stupid decisions. Many were born out of impulses, such as when he asked out a girl on the tube kamikaze-style. Many resulted in extreme embarrassment or, at best, amusing stories. Many had his friends and family shaking their heads, going, oh, Taron.  
  
Donating a shit ton of money to Colin Firth’s charity is another stupid decision.   
  
But does that stop him from doing it anyway? Nope. 

* * *

Naturally, when Taron’s moved from the panicked _what the fuck did I just do_ to the calmer _well, it happened, and I can’t change it_ stage, Colin calls him.  
  
“So, I’m expected to congratulate you.”   
  
“On what?” Taron asks, desperately, because he hopes Colin’s just read a review of one of his performances or something less embarrassing and more amazing, but the universe is relentless.   
  
“On winning a date with the illustrious Colin Firth.” Colin’s voice is light and teasing, yet with a touch of something Taron can’t quite describe—serious, almost, as if they’re discussing whether Eggsy should laugh at a droll comment about oyster forks or if Harry should smile. “Don’t you feel lucky?”   
  
Taron wants the world to reboot itself to before he clicked the enter button and to also soundly slap him across the face at the same time. “Of course, I am,” Taron manages to say, his voice surprisingly steady and perfectly easy, with his mantra of _I am a RADA-trained actor_ playing in his head. “I’m honored to court one of the most perfect men in the world.”   
  
“But on a…charity date?”   
  
He wants to say something like _being with you isn’t charity,_ but shuts himself up before he says something he can’t take back. “It’s for a noble and worthy cause,” Taron replies, with dignity. “To save you from being murdered.”   
  
Colin laughs, clearly remembering their joke. “My knight in shining armor. So, where are we going?”   
  
“Where are you now?” Taron immediately asks.   
  
“London. But you don’t—“   
  
“Then, I’ll be there, too. Just let me tell my mum.”

* * *

His mum tells him to wear something nice and to ask after Mark Strong, and Taron huddles next to a nearby cart, trying not to feel too out of place in his pale blue button-down shirt and neatly-combed hair. Fearing overcompensation, Taron had also thrown on a pair of jeans and trainers, then ruins the bottoms of his shoes by pacing up and down the soggy grass of St. James's Park, near the water peppered with leaves and quacking birds nuzzling at the shoreline.  
  
Taron had raised his eyebrows during their last phone conversation. “St. James's Park? Are we going to feed the ducks, then?”   
  
“ _Good Omens_ fan?” Colin asked pleasantly, and Taron swore that he could hear Colin smile when he answered in the affirmative. “Well, if you like, but I am showing you something that should prove more amusing.”   
  
“Are you going to murder me?” Taron teased. He wouldn’t mind, at all, in fact. Colin could brutally murder him and leave his rotting body in a copse, and Taron would thank him with his dying breath.   
  
He now mentally shakes his head. What, exactly, had he been thinking?   
  
His stomach is jumping up and down and tying itself into knots, and Taron keeps glancing over at a flower vendor a few feet away. It isn’t a real date, of course, but oughtn’t he get Colin something? Taron offered to pay for lunch, but he had a feeling that they’d end up splitting the cheque.   
  
“Taron?”   
  
Taron turns around, trying not to seem too eager, then failing miserably when he felt a wide grin stretch across his cheekbones. “Colin,” he says breathlessly. “Hi.”   
  
He hasn’t seen Colin in…well, not since the Kingsman sequel had wrapped up years ago. Taron thought that offers from studios would slow down in time, but they had seemed to increase after _Kingsman 2_ ; Sophie joked because it was because of all the crying scenes. Filming and interviews and casting calls left him scrambling for time to catch up with his family and friends back home; Sophie and Ed were all caught up in their own projects, while Colin…Colin always seemed busy with this film or that charity thing or another engagement.   
  
But seeing Colin for what seems like the first time makes Taron’s heart beat like he’s been running laps around London. He almost looks exactly the same as Taron recalls: soft smile, easy grace, large hands. He even has the same specs—thick-rimmed and black.   
  
Stepping forward, Taron raises his right arm to shake hands, but Colin surprises him by pulling him into a warm embrace. His cheek gets mashed in the wool of Colin’s long, black coat, and Taron inhales the familiar rich-smoky-earthy-citrusy scent of his cologne.  It reminds him of stretching out on his back in a grassy field on a warm summer day. “Good to see you,” Colin says, against his ear. “Have you grown?”   
  
Taron laughs, trying not to shiver when Colin pulls away. “No! I stopped growing before university. Why, have you?”   
  
“It’s the hair,” Colin replies, and Taron fights another smile unsuccessfully. Colin’s hair looks like cotton candy gone rogue, flapping in the wind with his gray-blue scarf. “Aren’t you cold?”   
  
Taron looks down at himself, realizing that he’s shivering like a Chihuahua in a rainstorm. “N-no. Just a bit chilled, I can—“   
  
Colin then takes off his jacket and actually drapes it around his shoulders. “There,” he says easily, as if he didn’t just nearly give Taron a coronary. “You should be a great deal warmer.”   
  
“But you’ll be cold,” Taron protests, although he’s already slipping an arm through the sleeve.   
  
“But I have another layer.” Colin gestures to his black jumper, with the collar of a white shirt beneath, two buttons undone customarily at the top. “And a scarf, besides.”   
  
He looks like he has the intention of unwinding it from his neck and putting it around Taron’s, so Taron holds up both hands. “I’m good,” he says, fighting another flush, even though he could probably pass it off as a side-effect of the cold. “Thanks, Colin. Maybe we should eat?”   
  
They get fish and chips in carry-away paper trays from a bored-looking vendor. Taron thinks he’s too nervous to eat a bite, but the moment he nibbles at the beer-battered fillet, he ends up shoving nearly the entire thing in his mouth. It’s perfectly crisp on the outside and perfectly tender on the inside, and steaming hot. Colin notices, pausing right in the middle of lifting a piece of his to smile. "Good?"   
  
"Pretty good!" He looks up at Colin. "Yours?"   
  
"Good," Colin replies, still chewing.   
  
"As good as the one with the mushy pea?” Taron laughs, remembering the single green vegetable resting on top of Colin's spectacles. He's told this story so many times that Colin sighs and looks as if he wants to look to the heavens every time Taron leans forward with an eager grin.   
  
Colin nudges him lightly. "You mock me, good sir."   
  
"Only to your face."   
  
He knocks Taron lightly with an arm. "Is that any way to talk to your date?"   
  
_Date_. Taron nearly chokes on his fillet. This isn't his first rodeo—as the Americans supposedly say—and although he can't claim to have been on loads of dates, Taron's been on enough to have a compare/contrast list in his head. There have been bad dates (in which his date talked to the waiter in Spanish the entire time), humiliating dates ("you laugh really weirdly, do you know that?"), awkward dates (sitting across from each other in an outdoor cafe, not talking or making eye contact), good dates (eating ice cream at the Aberystwyth food festival), and exciting dates (the circus and the applause that shook the stands). There've even been low-key, quiet dates like this, strolling along the park and eating something from nearby vendors.   
  
But, somehow, this is different. Obviously, his dates have never been Colin Firth that come with the consequence of having to stray towards the deserted areas to avoid crowds with potential cameras. Taron's thought about Colin after Kingsman, comparing him to his other co-stars down the road, and wondered a bit about what would have happened with Matthew Vaughn hadn't reached out to him in the first place. Where would he be? Still doing local television shows?   
  
Some of the change that's come around has been exhausting and overwhelming, difficult to get used to, but Taron's been helped out a lot by Matthew and by his co-stars, so that he didn't have to plunge in head-first. Yet, at the same time, Taron likens it to being pitched into the cold waters of his hometown (which had happened a few times)—shocking, with lots of gasping and flailing, but once acclimated, pleasant, with wide grins and confident strokes. Sure, there have been hiccups and minor mishaps and things Taron would rather not have seen—"I'm your mum, and sometimes, I don't want to see Photoshopped pictures of you straddling naked actors, dear"—but it's still been an incredible journey.   
  
And Taron feels like it's still beginning.   
  
Now, he's strolling along a tree line with Colin Firth, forgoing eating the rest of his lunch as they just talk and talk for what seems like hours. Colin's a chatterbox—he's always been—and almost every sentence makes Taron laugh. He doesn't want this day to end.   
  
Suddenly, Colin stops, and Taron follows suit, wondering why. They’re now in a heavily-wooded area, with branches stretching high and curving towards each other, like reaching hands interlocking. Even though it's still afternoon, it seems a bit darker and quieter, far from the main paths. Rich and green, Taron breathes in the scent of the earth and dewdrops, imagining roots sinking deep into the ground and the scuffed prints his and Colin's shoes are making.   
  
"Where are we?" he asks.   
  
Colin smiles. "Don't you remember? The place I was supposed to show you?" He's tossed his empty fish and chips tray in a bin a long time ago, and Taron notices that he's still holding onto his. The chips are probably cold by now, and the remaining little pieces of fillets are likely soggy and not as good. He wants to chuck it, but looking around, he can't see anywhere he can put it in sight. But Taron forgets that when Colin steps into the greenery—through a slit of closely-planted trees—beckoning. He follows, not realizing that he's holding his breath until he lets it out once he's inside.   
  
It's like being in a tent—a breathing, spacious tent with high ceilings and sunlight. It's like being inside a favorite book—immersed in a completely different world from his own, breathing in borrowed air, eyes submerged in rich colors and imaginary voices. It's like being with someone, hand against their chest, feeling the thrum of their heartbeat—something welcoming, yet intensely private at the same time.   
  
It's like being the only two people left on earth.   
  
"Where did you find this?"   
  
Colin smiles, reaching out to clasp Taron's arm. "Years ago. I'm probably not the first to stumble upon this, but this is one of my favorite places in London." He gestures around them, somewhat hard to do in a cramped space. They're standing close together, closer than Harry and Eggsy had been—and that seems like such a long time ago that Taron's mind freezes.   
  
His voice comes out soft, close to whispering. "This is...really amazing, Colin." He mentally winces. He used to want to be an English literature teacher. Surely he can think of better words.   
  
The trees around them are tangled together like vines, pressed closer together than he and Colin are, and the roots poke from the ground. Taron can feel every hard curve through the soles of his shoes. The air here seems so still, hanging, but he can almost feel it pressing against his body, underneath Colin's coat. Colin's coat—he needs to give it back—but before he can shrug it off, Colin steps closer. His fingers are still around Taron's arm, and when Taron cranes his neck upwards, Colin's eyes seem...different.   
  
He's not wearing his glasses. Taron doesn't know when he took them off; he looks and sees them dangling from his shirt collar.   
  
"Taron..." Colin says, then stops.   
  
"What?" Taron asks, mentally wincing when his voice comes out too loud.   
  
Colin doesn't seem to notice. He's always been good at that, letting awkward questions and tense gazes roll off of him like water off a duck's back. Taron's wondered before if Colin's natural at that, or if he's had practice, and could only just say, in the end, that he likes that about Colin. Being around him during his first few interviews as a newbie film star made it better, the same way grabbing an umbrella when the clouds were puffy and gray in the dim sky was—reassuring to know that something was able to look out for you.   
  
Except Colin isn't an umbrella. He's—   
  
Closer.   
  
So close that Taron can smell his cologne that isn't from the coat and the fish and chips and mushy peas. So close that his warm breath brushes against his brow. So close that Colin's hand on his arm has bent, moved to fingers brushing up his shoulder...   
  
_Is this the moment?_ Taron thinks, mind whirling with all sorts of things— _stand on your toes, don't open your mouth right away, hand on his shoulder, don't close your eyes_ —when he hears a camera shutter.   
  
_Oh, no,_ Taron thinks. _Then, crap._  
  
“Colin! Colin, over here!”   
  
“Was that Taron? Taron Egerton?”   
  
"Let's just not come out," Taron says, half-joking. But it's too late. The spell is broken—Colin's stepped back, no longer touching him, fumbling for his glasses. Taron stands there, stupidly still holding his tray of mostly-eaten lunch. He's not sure what to do.   
  
Colin looks truly annoyed, before he nods at the slight commotion outside. "Perhaps we should face the music."   
  
“Perhaps we should make a run for it,” Taron teases, just as Colin leads him outside to a small mob of people snapping pictures and standing on their toes to get a good view of them. He sees a few more texting, another scribbling something in a notepad. He follows Colin to the sidewalk, the other man nodding politely, with his gaze scanning the street.   
  
He then stops, turning to face Taron, with a mischievous smile. Taron nearly bangs straight into him, before his left palm shoots out and collides with Colin's chest. Immediately, he jerks it away, his right hand still holding onto his grease-stained paper tray, ready to apologize.   
  
“A gentleman doesn’t run,” Colin then says, with dignity. “A gentleman tries to be polite as possible.” He whispers, lips nearly brushing Taron’s ear. “But this occasion calls for a speedy getaway.”   
  
Taron, still stunned over their close proximity, nearly shouts in surprise when he sees a taxi pull up right next to them.   
  
“That’s our cue,” Colin announces, and ushers them both in.   
  
Blinded by a camera flash, Taron follows.   
  
“Colin Firth,” the cabbie gasps, looking as if he might pass out in the front seat. “I—I—“   
  
“Hello. We would like a ride to Chiswick,” Colin replies calmly, with a genial smile. "If you please?"

* * *

Taron's been to Colin's house before. It's spacious and looks as if it was built for the trees around them, with lots of windows and wood. From what he remembers, it's also very cozy and homey and almost always has something hot boiling on the stove.  
  
Livia now opens the door, not looking surprised to see them. Her brown hair tumbles around her shoulders, and her smile is both generous and calm, much like Colin's. "Come in, you two. Did you beat back the paparazzi? You have that frazzled look." She kisses Colin on the cheek, then opens her arms. Colin steps forward and embraces her fondly, while Taron shuffles his feet on the porch. He still has those bloody fish and chips.   
  
Livia smiles even more brightly, stepping backwards to invite them inside. “Have fun on your date?”   
  
"It was a lovely afternoon," Colin replies, and Taron smiles a bit weakly. It seems so wrong that just a few moments ago, he'd been thinking of the possibility of Colin kissing him, and now, his wife is laughingly offering to put something on for them, chatting about Taron staying for dinner, their kids having outings with friends today, and a new environmental advocacy project coming up in a few weeks. Colin's wedding band gleams brightly underneath the sunlight streaming through the windows, and Livia's sparkles, throwing shimmering specks around the kitchen.   
  
He deserves this.   
  
Taron manages to make conversation and laugh at Livia's teasing about the fish and chips and look away from Colin with guilt twisting his stomach. He normally loves Livia and Colin's cooking, explanations about spices and sauce and timing, stories about the different places they'd been for both jobs and for vacations, and eating three platefuls of whatever they cooked up, but Taron just wants to leave. But he can't, not without seeming impolite, so he stays until evening shadows darken the house, and Colin has to turn on the lights.     
  
He previously couldn't wait for this day to be over, but now, Taron wishes it was at its end. He wants to go home and—he's not sure what. Ring his friends? Lie down? Get busy?   
  
_At least_ , Taron thinks, when his mobile finally rings, with his mum's picture and number flashing across the screen, _it's over now._ **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

Taron wakes up to two-hundred-and-sixty-two messages from his local mates, Ed, Sophie, his sister, and his agent. Some are emojis, and some are scrambled texts, but what really catch his eyes are the attached photos. Specifically, of the _tabloids_.

At first, it seems all right— _Firth and Egerton Nip Out for Lunch—_ then: _Is Egerton Edging in on Firth?_

The second headline is splashed across the front page of _The Sun,_ with a collage of what Taron had joked about years ago: _him_ _longingly looking_ _at Colin._ In the middle of it is Taron on the curb, hand on Colin’s chest, hair ruffled and eyes wide.

Another, probably a fan of _Kingsman_ , notes, _Egerton Goes…Deep Enough,_ with a blurry snapshot of Taron following Colin into the trees, and in the right-hand corner is him at Colin’s heels, scrambling to get in the backseat of the cab with him. And Taron remembers: _he had been wearing Colin’s coat._

Taron rolls over and swipes at his phone, ignoring the drool seeping out from the right corner of his lip. He’s _horrified,_ and doesn’t dare to Google, but the photos and texts soon clue him in. According to them, it’s been pieced together that his and Colin’s outing had been linked to his charity date auction.

 _Oh, Mister Darcy_ is another one of the headlines, with Taron and Colin in a sliver of trees, the distance between their faces so minuscule that it looks as if they’re touching. All the other photos are equally horrifying: them standing so close that it can’t be mistaken for friendly, platonic intimacy. There are more than that: Colin leading Taron into the grove, Taron with sheep eyes stumbling out, and them running for the curb to get a cab, Colin’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Before Taron considers changing his name and writing goodbye letters to his family, two new texts pop up on the screen.  

He’s barely had time to skim his texts from Ed—or, as his phone contact says _Ben Whishaw’s Boyfriend—_ which contains messages, such as _DATE???_ To _Have you graduated from Tom Hardy’s bf to Colin’s??_

His mates’ and sister’s range from _what the actual fuck_ to _what are you thinking—how did this happen—no, why did this happen?_

Sophie’s are more courteous and not judgmental: _Saw this and thought you’d like to prepare in case this comes up in an interview or something. Hope you’re doing okay, Taron!_

The new ones are from Colin: _we need to talk_ and _call me._

Taron doesn’t call Colin. Instead, he rings Ed, who immediately picks up and says what Taron has hoped he would: “Let me guess, you want to get smashed tonight?”

“Yes,” Taron agrees, before reconsidering: “But not in public. Oh, _God.”_

“Sorry, mate,” Ed replies sympathetically, but his voice then takes on a teasing tone: “Did you see the one that referenced you in _Robin Hood_ ? _Egerton Robbin’ Hearts_?”

Taron buries his face in his hands and moans. “I don’t know which is more horrible: the puns or the…the assumption.”

Ed _hmm_ s. “It looks pretty bad.”

“Like I’d move in on a married man. Like Colin would move in on me!” Taron’s mind is racing. What will this do to Colin’s reputation? He’s no cheater, and he and Livia adore each other. Oh God, what would his wife think? What if they divorce? His kids, what would—

 _Calm down,_ Taron tells himself. _Calm down, these are just…rumors. We can clear them up. But I have to—_

“Your crush on him is enduring,” Ed says. “I’m surprised, frankly.” He then sighs. “But, Taron, _geez._ How did...wasn’t the charity thing like a bachelor auction? Did you pay for him?”

That sounds so _wrong,_ and Taron’s response isn’t any better: “Yes, but I was trying to—it was a joke—and I didn’t want—” He groans, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “This looks bad. This looks really, really bad, doesn’t it?”

Taron knows Ed’s views on actors and the press, about them being taken more seriously in a role—more authentically—if they weren’t seen getting pissed at some club or behaving foolishly in a public setting. _This_ looks worse than getting smashed at a bar—in fact, Taron almost wishes he’d been caught doing that instead.  

“It kind of does,” Ed admits. “I mean, you’re wearing his _coat._ I haven’t done that since...well, all right, last week, with Cressida.”

“How’s your girlfriend?” Taron hurriedly asks, mostly to shift the focus off of him. Ed can talk for hours about Cressida.  

His friend goes with it. “Was thinking about proposing,” Ed admits, but his tone doesn’t exactly seem cheery. “Her parents still take the piss on me—it’s better, but it’s hard to—well, when they don’t approve—I mean, who could compare to royalty?”

“Pff, you’re better.”

Ed snorts. “As if. It’s hard, you know. We’re together, and there’s nothing they can really do about it, but it’s…hard. It’s like, we’re in love, but we always have to fight for it, and it’s exhausting.” He sighs. “I wish I could understand.”

Taron hmms, trying to figure out how to give romantic advice when he hasn’t been a relationship since—God, who long has it been? “I’m sorry, mate,” he says instead. “I mean, I hope it gets better. Maybe they’ll like you the more you stick around. It’s serious, yeah?”

“Very serious.” Ed sighs again. “But we have to try. And look, this Colin thing? It’s like secondary. People will find something new to talk about—it’s been a slow news day for months—and this will be forgotten.”

“Forgotten.” Taron tries not to look at more incoming texts, and decides just to shut his phone off for the day. Also, avoid the Internet. “I hope so.”

* * *

 

It is not forgotten.

In fact, it gets more attention when the deleted scenes _finally_ come out on a limited special edition, something to stir up the hype once it cooled down, since Matthew went on record and told everyone there wasn’t going to be a third movie.

When Taron logs into Twitter to retweet Lazy Habit’s newest album announcement, he sees mainly two tags: #kingsman and #thebreakfastscene.

Taron plays the video—ripped from the DVD in high quality; these people work fast—and watches Colin—no, _Harry_ —drone on about elbows and napkins and forks. He can see _why_ it got cut—Harry’s already explained how to be a gentleman in a later scene in less than ten minutes, and Matthew was right in saying that the calm, if slow scene, would have thrown off the pacing of the action film.

He remembers looking forward to this particular scene, because Colin’s time filming was almost up, and any moment spent with him was…Taron refuses to come up with an adjective other than _nice._ He also tries not to remember drinking in Colin, anxiously dreading the day Colin would walk off the set, board a plane, and possibly never come back until the movie premieres.

“Taron,” Matthew had said, “maybe try looking a _bit_ less interested in what Harry has to say? I doubt Eggsy would find cutlery this interesting.”

Behind the director, Taron noticed Sophie covering her mouth in amusement and Mark—well, Mark’s expression was something Taron couldn’t quite put a word to.

He didn’t dare look at Colin.

“Er, yeah,” Taron said belatedly, cheeks hot. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Of course, he realized later, this little lurch was _nothing_ compared to his later excited outburst of _Colin, you got pecs, mate!_

Luckily, that didn’t make it into the behind the scenes blooper feature—he laughs for three minutes straight at Ed tripping over his dog—but he watches the scene again, feeling slightly nostalgic until he accidently clicks on the #TaronEgerton tag.

Taron has made some rules about the Internet ever since _Kingsman_ came out, and one of them was not to Google himself. His mates occasionally ragged him about the stuff they found, but Taron usually laughed it off and never spoke of it again. But this tag—it’s like standing in front of a closed door while a few people at the party have started discussing you once you left the room.

Some are nice, some are enthusiastic, and some are…

_Looks like Taron’s been in love with Colin since the beginning. #firtherton_

Good lord. They had a celebrity mash-up name.

 _Don’t do it,_ Taron warns himself, but clicks the tag.

Some are tagged with _hartwin_ and _canon,_ most with pictures—and some of the ones he saw days ago. There’s comments about his face, his smile, his gazing, Colin’s coat, and his eyes, some more detailed than his past English analysis papers. There’s his quotes about Colin—and there are an awful lot—and some of the more damning ones are bolded for emphasis. There’s even speculation that he broke it off with a partner after they started _Kingsman_ because of _Colin_.

Most of what’s going through his head is _why did you open Pandora’s box_ and _what the fuck_ and _I’m never leaving the house._

Just when Taron’s working himself up into a panic, his agent calls and asks, “Taron, are you interested in a new role?”

* * *

Of course, his new role had to be the co-star to Colin Firth.

“Your friendship with Colin is so popular that some hotshot director’s requesting _you_ specifically to be Colin’s right-hand man,” his agent had said eagerly. “If you want, you can audition.”

Right. _Friendship._

Taron had made non-committal sounds into the phone, listened to his agent rattle off the contact info and promises to send him all this, and faked a classic “my mum’s calling me; gotta go!” before hanging up and tossing his phone on the bed.

 _This is the last thing I need,_ Taron thinks. _I need another role. With...with...someone else. Maybe I can work with Suki Waterhouse again…_

He ignores the fact that this won’t solve his problems. He ignores the fact that he’s banned Colin’s name from conversations with his mates, that his sister’s giving him increasingly suspicious looks, and that he’s deleted messages from his inbox about the auction date. He ignores the fact that Colin’s been calling him with increasing frequency over the past few days, and Taron’s ignored every one.   

It’s childish. It’s not like him. It’s rude, too. It’s not Colin’s fault; it’s his. For allowing...for making...for….for what, exactly?

His phone now rings again. _Colly Wobbles_ flashes across the screen, with a familiar smiling face. For over thirty seconds, Taron stares at it.

He’s almost willing for it to go to voicemail before he chickens out, presses the green call icon, and tries for a casual, somewhat apologetic, “Hello?”

“Taron?” Colin says, voice hesitant. “Can we talk?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lauren (yourefullofsurprises) and her husband for helping me with the tabloid headlines!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially wrote this chapter in Colin's POV, but decided to not include it for the sake of keeping Taron's POV consistent and minor spoilers for Colin's feelings. However, you can read it [here](http://annaofaza.tumblr.com/post/140317755103/the-colin-firth-effect-chapter-3-annaofaza) if you like!

Taron picks up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Colin says, voice tentative. Taron’s heard Colin hem and haw over elaborate interview questions or what kind of lunch he should order, but never like this—never truly befuddled, and, Taron realizes, _nervous_. He doesn’t know whether it’s a relief to hear Colin so humanly not prim-and-proper, or something that should make him even more anxious. “Taron,” Colin then continues, “I assume you saw…”

“Yeah,” Taron says, glancing at his bedroom door. Walking over to close it as quietly as he can, he says, “I’m sorry, Colin. I—“

“What do you have to be sorry for? It was my idea.”

“But I’m the one who—“ _donated gobs to your charity to see you again? Let you cover me with your coat? Wanted you to—to—_ “I followed along,” Taron finishes. “Are you and Livia…?”

“We’re all right,” Colin reassures him, but his voice gets tenser. “Yes, we’re all right. We know where we stand with each other.”

“In a good way, or a bad way?”

Colin pauses. “A good way.”

“Good. I’ve regretted many things, but I’ve never broken up a marriage before. Or almost. That is not something I want to add to my CV.” Taron winces. His publicity team often referred to the broken filter connecting his mouth to his brain; he should never make jokes, especially since it’s definitely not a good time to start. “I mean, I bet I’m going to be a pariah after this.”

“No one is not angry at you. They’re angry at me.” Colin sounds, not resigned or disappointed like Taron would be in his position, but almost strangely determined. “Look, I know about the film coming up, and the potential role for you. If you don’t want to work with me again, I understand.”

“No!” Taron winces. “I mean, no, I want to work with you! It’s just…” He searches his mind for the right combination of the words to make this right again, but can’t. What will everyone say after this, especially if he gets the role? Can he even work with Colin again without controversy? “I…I don’t want something like…that to happen again.”

There’s a prolonged silence at the other end of the line.

“All right, then,” Colin says, voice stiff and formal, a tone he’s never taken with Taron before. “It won’t. I’ve…been thinking about ways to spin this unfortunate situation, and I think it best that we treat it as something the public horribly misconstrued.” The next words come like jagged cuts. “A joke.”

Taron tries to ignore the simultaneous sweep of relief and disappointment. “A joke?”

“We did go on a charity date as an opportunity to reunite and talk about our upcoming film together.” Colin says. “But if it comes up in interviews, we play it up the tiniest bit, but not seriously. Remember that one we did together? When you said we were lovers?”

Taron briefly shuts eyes, as if his closed lids could be shields from the embarrassment that floods his entire body. _That_ one. He remembered being stupidly pleased when Colin smiled and ducked his head, and liked thinking afterwards that Colin was being shy or acknowledging the running conversation that had been so easy to joke about in the old days. It wasn’t Roxy that was the love interest, no: it was Harry, and he and Colin spent many a break bantering about it, teasing about what really happened in the twenty-four hours. _Well, there’s a lot you don’t see..._

“The coat—” he says, forcing himself to focus on the details to sell this narrative Colin apparently intensively planned. “The one from you that I was wearing—“

“You were cold.”

“The private spot—“

“A place to discuss the details of a movie that hasn’t even gotten fully greenlit yet.”

“The—“ _Kiss_ , Taron wants to say, but it hadn’t been one, not really, not even close. “The close proximity,” he instead says, somewhat lamely.

Colin hesitates so long that Taron wonders if he should repeat the question and even checks his phone to see if Colin had hung up. He hasn’t, and Taron begins chewing the inside of his cheek, something he hasn’t done since his first play at RADA.

“I was comforting you,” Colin finally says. “We were beginning to talk about something personal, and you—you needed advice. Like old times.”

If Colin had been standing near him, Taron would have pulled away. “Right,” he says quietly. “Old times.” Something ugly twists in his chest, but he forces himself to unloosen the fist he initially hadn’t realized he had clenched.

 _This is the best thing to do,_ he reminds himself. _Do you really want to destroy everything you’ve worked for, everything Colin has, for some stupid infatuation?_

“I have to go,” Taron says at last, when Colin doesn’t respond. “I guess I have an agent to call about a role.”

“You’re doing to do great,” Colin says, so sincerely that Taron’s heart lightens, just a little, like stepping into the sun. He’s reminded of the two of them walking along Savile Row all those years ago, winged trainers on his feet and an umbrella swinging from Colin’s steady grip. It had been the first day of filming, a beginning that Taron couldn’t have imagined more than his first role in a film. But now…

Taron isn’t saying he’s like Eggsy—good lord, no—but Colin’s been his mentor all throughout the process. During his eight-month training, Taron had carried a small fear in the back of his mind that Matthew would call, take his part back, and tell him to go back to Aberystwyth. Even when he stepped onto the set for the first time in Eggsy’s clothes, Taron couldn’t believe it until the director shouted, “Action!”

He’d been expecting to be thrown in head-first, but Matthew had taken him through his scenes step-by-step, and his co-stars—especially Sophie and Ed, newcomers like him—were there learning with him. But Colin— _Colin Firth_ —had come up to him and asked if he wanted to sit down and have a chat. Taron had nearly made an embarrassing squeal—though not as bad as Ed’s when he’d met Sir Michael Caine—before he nodded a bit frantically with a _sure, sure._

Taron is proud to call Colin his friend, now—part of him is as inwardly excited as he’d been on his first day—and it never fails to make him smile when _Colly Wobbles_ pops up on his screen.

Except…it’s too complicated for him. It isn’t worth it to continue like this. It isn’t fair to Taron, fair to Colin, or fair to either of their families for Taron to have a one-sided, hopeless, and obviously desperate crush that’s somehow successfully snarled his heart like tangled shoelaces. Again.

Because that’s all that it is: a crush.

Taron has to let this go.

“Thanks, Colin,” Taron replies, voice perfectly steady, and presses the END CALL button.


	4. Chapter 4

Taron’s never been part of a celebrity scandal. To be fair, this wasn’t so much a _scandal_ as an _innocent misunderstanding,_ according to Colin. The whole thing depends on maintaining the delicate balance of denying it enough to not be considered blatant dodging but enough to make it appear as if this was an embarrassing, if silly, error based on a slow news day and overenthusiastic tabloid reporters.

Honestly, it’s not as hard as one would think. Colin, in his many years of acting, has never had a scandal to his name, and Taron hasn’t done anything to tarnish his image in the public eye other than to dress sloppily, according to his publicist.

After all, Colin has been married to Livia for years and hasn’t had any, well, _male_ dalliances, and Taron’s only really mentioned girls—he's even flirted with a few of the female interviewers. There are the film roles—Colin’s played a few gay characters, and Taron’s played two—but those are _movies._ Not real life.

Taron has to remind himself about that nearly every day.

“So,” the interviewer now says eagerly, and Taron visibly startles in his seat, realizing he’s zoned out _again_. Beside him, Colin briefly nudges him, a playful _pay attention._ “Colin Firth and Taron Egerton, back together again. Are you feeling the nostalgia?”

Sitting too stiffly on the black leather couch, Taron manages a smile, as Colin replies, “Oh, most definitely. I’ve been looking forward to working with Taron again, and it’s rather…it’s amazing to be working with a veteran actor.”

Taron knows this part: grin, laugh, and fire back, “ _Ve_ _teran_? Not yet, not until I’m as old as you,” then Colin would mock-groan, “Are you calling me old?,” the audience would laugh and go _ohhh,_ and the interviewer—laughing, too—would move onto the next question.

An immature part of Taron doesn’t want to smile for the cameras and pretend for another hour. The same immature part wants to sulk like a moody teenager and give two-word answers. Sometimes, Taron’s tired of the circuit ride, saying his old hometown name to an always-amused crowd or smiling and sitting up straight when he’s gotten about three hours of sleep. He’s said before in an interview a long time ago that he doesn’t want to constantly be a model of decorum, someone crafted, a mask to put on before leaving the house.

But his mum taught him well, and honestly, Taron can’t be rude to people. It’s not in him, so in the end, Taron smiles, loudly proclaims his hometown name, and before answering the questions, thinks quickly on how to respond.

“Taron?” the interviewer asks, with a bemused look.

He nearly jumps in his seat again. “Uh, definitely.” His mind blanks, horrifyingly, but his improvising skills kick into gear: “It’s a different role than uh, Harry and Eggsy, from _Kingman_ , you know. Not a mentor-mentee relationship, but like a—“

“Oh, Taron, don’t go spoiling it now,” Colin quickly says. “The director will have our heads.”

The interviewer grins. “Can you give us some hints?”

Colin laughs, deftly replying, “Let’s just say there’s enough for a soap opera in there, and the media in-verse has a lot of fun with it.”

“Speaking of which,” the interviewer says, and Taron’s stomach curdles, as if he’s eaten too many Jaffa Cakes in one go, “your charity date, as you know, made its rounds not too long ago—” Pictures pop up on the screens behind him, and the audience begins laughing, accompanied by scattered applause. “Especially _this_ one.”

Taron doesn’t have to turn around and see which picture everyone’s looking at. Helplessly, he smiles and shakes his head, as if this whole thing is something insignificantly silly, while Colin, beside him, chuckles audibly.

“Oh, that,” Colin airily says. “Well, let me just say that Taron not only plays a knight, he is a true one as well.” He lowers his voice in false confidentially. “Not only did he donate a lot in order to put a dent in world hunger, he also offered to accompany me when Livia cancelled for a conference. _And_ paid for the lunch, like a true gentleman.”

Taron stills. That’s not _true._

“Taron, you must know how to treat someone on the first date!” the interviewer exclaims, grinning. “But can anyone live up to Colin Firth? Should the ladies be disappointed?”

“Oh, no,” Taron says, forcing himself to grin, “free as a bird, me.”

In the end, it’s almost disappointing how quickly it all gets swept underneath the rug, everyone’s reputation intact. The worry is always worse than eventuality, and frankly, Taron’s glad it’s stopped. He’s had to take a break from Twitter and go outside with a hood pulled over his face.

But all the same: something that meant so much to him back then is now being toted out as a _joke_ , and it keeps repeating, popping up for a few seconds.

The narrative eventually goes like this: Taron won the charity date at random, Livia and Colin offered to take him out to lunch in London, Livia cancelled, and Taron still went.

Everyone should be happy.

* * *

  _Should_ being the key word, of course.

The film shooting is enjoyable but exhausting, and Taron’s joked time and time again to his mates that he’s getting _too old_ for this, but he’s beginning to think he sort of is. He’s working around an average of fourteen hours a day, barely getting any sleep, and his free time consists of running lines, practicing his combat moves, and trying to eat.

 _Kingsman_ used to be chaotic and a bit scary but a lot of fun, and even though the tone of this current film is the same—amusing and snarky and not too serious—Taron isn’t exactly having the same experience. Everyone else is friendly, although a bit harried, but Taron finds himself taking the car home straight from the studio or filming location more often than not, instead of going out with the other cast members.

He texts Ed and Sophie, both of them too busy to answer more than a _hey,_ and sighs when he looks at the timestamps of his other texts to his other friends and mum. _Kingsman_ had been far from home, but everyone had been so welcoming and eager to make friends. Matthew had taken him out to lunch to talk shop and make sure he was all right, Ed and Sophie and Sofia and the other “candidates” used to joke around set and go out for drinks after wrapping their scenes up that day, and the older actors offered advice and quick tips and even sometimes went out with what Mark jokingly called “the young people.”

And Colin—

It hasn’t been conscious, but Taron knows that they’ve been avoiding each other. They’re friendly and work together just fine on set, always professional, but at the end of the day, Colin doesn’t ask him if he wants to catch a late dinner or chat a bit.

Which Taron gets. They’re too busy, their filming schedules often don’t line up, and there’s no need to start any rumors when the old ones have died down.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s lonelier than ever.  

He does another interview that day, this time with _Empire,_ and is asked, once again, _Are you still single?_

The answer, this time, is a little different. Normally, he makes a joke out of it or elaborates a little on how it’s affecting his life, but it’s simple this time around: _yes, I am._

Taking a car back to the set, a greasy takeaway on his lap, Taron stares out the window, the gloomy weather passing by. There’s nothing wrong with being single, of course, but the more he’s asked that question, the more he’s begun to sort of resent it. He’s been single for five years; it’s not for the lack of trying, but it’s hard to maintain a steady relationship with his family and friends back home in between projects and shooting and promotions, let alone cultivating something new from the ground up.

With the way his life is now—and the way it’s going to be for a long time—the idea of having a romantic relationship is impractical. Taron remembers relating a fantasy to a magazine about having a family and settling down, but that dream seems farther and farther away with each project he takes on.

He’s willing to wait, Taron tells himself, but waiting is harder than it looks.

Pulling out his mobile, he scrolls through the contacts, ignoring the untouched food in his lap, and presses the green _CALL_ icon.

When the third ring ends, he thinks it’s going to just redirect to voicemail when: “Taron! Hey, baby, what are you calling for?”

“Just miss you, Mum,” Taron says, trying to ignore the rising lump in his throat. “I miss you a lot.”

* * *

 “You all right?” Colin asks, once the scene ends. They’re standing on the street, lit brightly by lamps and nearly overflowing with the crew, and watching the director talk with one of the other actors, gesturing wildly with his hands. Someone behind them is talking into her headset, while another is muttering over the footage, and there’s no one paying much attention to them.

“I’m fine. Just sort of cold.” Taron shoves his hands into his pockets, waiting for the director to call his name. There’s a chilly night breeze that keeps slapping him in the face, despite the heat lamp near his right side, and his stomach is regretting not eating when he had the chance. This scene is luckily going to be quick, just fervent whispering between him and a mysterious bloke, and he can go and lay down for the rest of the night.

“I don’t mean that.” Colin hesitates, then reiterates, “I mean…how have you been doing?”

Taron gives a noncommittal shrug. “All right. You?”

“You just seem withdrawn, that’s all,” Colin says, and before Taron can point out that he’s dodged the question, he continues, in a lower voice, “I just want to say—”

“I still have your coat,” Taron blurts, realizing how pathetic this all is. It didn’t used to be like this, awkward and stilted and cautious. “I can return it to you next time on set.”

“Or you can just mail it to the house,” Colin says quickly.

A sliver of ice buries itself in Taron’s chest. _Right._ “Oh. Okay. Yeah, I get it.”

“Taron,” Colin says, and Taron turns away, not wanting to see the look on his face. “I—”

“Taron!” the director calls. “I need you on your mark!”

“Coming!” Taron shouts back, giving a sort of jerky nod towards Colin, then heads back into the cold.

* * *

Colin’s sort of lurking about the set the next day, not approaching Taron, but staying within orbit. He only gives Taron a nod and smile, then walks onto his mark in the middle of the set, near the large, oak desk.  

Taron frowns and ignores it, lingering by the doorway and trying to make himself crawl back into his headspace for the day. He’s not Taron Egerton anymore; he’s Ernest Nightingale, Nathaniel Champlain’s assistant.

For this scene, he’s _angry_. Betrayed. Wondering how he couldn’t have known his boss was the city’s superhero. Being treated as if he’s some stupid, silly lackey, hatred fueled by the villain’s coaxing.

But he’s willing to speak to Nathaniel. Maybe this is all some misunderstanding. Maybe they’ll be able to work it out, if they’re both honest.

When _action!_ is uttered, Taron clears his throat and steps into the room, hands fidgeting without the tablet he’d clutched to his chest in all his previous scenes. “It’s been days since we last talked,” he begins.

Colin pauses, not even turning to face him, pretending to study the scenery outside the office. “It has.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“I know.”

“So, have you just been avoiding me?” Taron doesn’t wait for protests, and pleads: “I’ve been covering your arse all these past months! Smiling and telling all these reporters that you’re fine, that you’re a bit overworked, that you’re perfectly all right! And I’ve been giving you space, but I can’t—I can’t keep doing this! Please, tell me what’s going on with you.”

Colin shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Taron stresses, but the anger isn’t there, not like it says in the script. There’s just exhaustion.

“I just can’t,” Colin repeats, and Taron begins, stepping forward with his hands slightly outstretched, “I’m your—“

“You’re my assistant!” Colin roars so loudly, so angrily that Taron and half of the camera crew startle as he whirls around to finally look him in the eye. “It’s not your job to question me! I tell you what to do, and you do it!”

There’s silence, then Colin quietly murmurs, regretful and hurt, “Ernest—“

“I’m—I’m your assistant? That’s _bullshit_ !” How _dare_ he act like he’s hurt. How dare he acts like the victim here. “Without me, you wouldn’t be able to go to those meetings you keep missing! Tell me: who gives you a hangover cure? Who dry cleans your fucking suits?” Taron lets out a slow, shuddery breath. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Colin is silent.

“Tell me you need me,” Taron demands, but it doesn’t sound much like one. It’s weak, wobbling on his tongue., and his fists clench at his sides.

“I don’t.”

Taron takes that in, absorbing the words like a blow. “…You don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine. _Fine_ .” Taron sighs, shaking his head and heading for the door, wide enough so he’s able to slam it on his way out. “Have a good evening, _sir_.”

“…And cut!” the director shouts, then waves them both over. “Taron, that’s good. I like how the resentment and hurt came through, didn’t expect that. I suppose it makes sense, _and_ sort of will surprise Colin—Nathaniel—the next time he sees you. Colin, a bit more anger, perhaps? You’re stressed, under a lot of pressure, and your assistant’s laying on you, you know—this is the last straw and all.”

Both of them nod, agree to a five-minute break, and watch the director go to talk to one of the camera crew members.

“You all right?” Colin asks.

Taron feels himself trembling. “I’m good, Colin. I just…need some sleep.”

“Oh.” Colin stands there, and Taron almost likes it as much as he hates it: Colin Firth not knowing what to do next. “Do you want to get dinner and drinks after this? It’s been a long day.”

“No,” Taron says. “I should be heading home. Besides,” his tone is cold. “We shouldn’t start any more rumors, right?”

“Right.” Colin replies, so softly that Taron can pretend he didn’t hear when he walks away from him.


	5. Chapter 5

If this were a movie, Taron would either go to the nearest bar and get amazingly pissed or go home and eat a gallon of ice cream to the rhythm of some maudlin pop song.

He does neither. Instead, Taron goes back to his hotel once the shoot is over, avoiding eye contact with everyone he comes across, and collapses on the bed with a soft _poof_ of the mattress, not even bothering to turn on the lights or change into something more comfortable.

The rest of the filming had involved multiple takes of the same scene, and even though Taron logically knew Colin wasn’t angry with _him,_ he still couldn’t shake off the tremors in his heart whenever Colin shouted. No one could accuse Colin of not giving it his entire effort, but something had changed. Instead of the blistering fury the script called for, Colin instead sounded _pleading_ , begging Taron’s character to leave him alone, a man at the end of his rope.

His phone buzzes three times, and Taron reluctantly claws his mobile out of his jeans, crushing the relief and anticipation blooming in his chest when he sees the ID.  

“Ed? Hey, how are—“

“I proposed.”

Taron’s mind races to catch up before it sinks in. “Oh. Oh! Ed, congratulations! What did she say?”

“She said yes.” Ed’s voice is shaky, almost as if he’s on the verge of freaking out. “I mean, I thought she’d—I wouldn’t have asked unless—God. _God_.”

“You’re going to be married,” Taron says, still trying to process. Ed’s only four years older than him, and soon, he’ll be standing in a tux and eagerly waiting for Cressida to come down the aisle. Taron can’t remember the last time he’d cherished such a fantasy. “Wow.”

“I’m going to be _married_. Yeah.” Ed laughs shakily. “Me. Married.”

“Congratulations,” Taron repeats sincerely. “I’m really happy for you. Except that you have a wedding to plan now.”

“Oh, God, yeah.” Ed groans. “We’re trying for a small one, and Cressida joked that she wants it to be to the opposite of whatever to-do she would have gotten if she ended up marrying Prince Harry.” He laughs, and Taron can imagine his friend shaking his head. “She and Chelsy—they loved him, yeah, but the spotlight was too much for them. Cressida wants to work on her career and be recognized for that, not just Prince Harry’s girlfriend, future wife, you know?”

Taron sees tabloids splashed across his vision: _Prince Harry’s Wife Out Shopping! Prince Harry’s Wife Pregnant! Prince Harry's Wife Eating Nandos!_  Always in the spotlight, even off a set.  

“I definitely get it,” he mutters, then, “How did her parents react?”

“Well, we haven’t told them yet,” Ed admits, with a shaky laugh. “But we invited them to dinner this week, so I’m pretty sure they’re suspecting something’s up. Hopefully it’s not this Friday; I’m meeting up with Matthew.”

“For lunch?”

“Yeah, to talk about the third movie.”

“Third…movie? For _Kingsman_?”

“I think so, yeah, but I don’t know how I’m going to be involved, exactly, considering what happened to Charlie. What, you haven’t—?”

“What? No,” Taron says, still surprised. He’s eager, yes, but his elation quickly dissipates to churning in his stomach when he remembers that, unlike the first film, Harry Hart wasn’t shot in the head this time around. “No.”

“But it would be cool to get back together, huh?” Ed asks, tone shifting into cheery nostalgia. “Remember when we nicked Matthew’s buggy and took it for a spin? Or when Sophie and Hanna got into that arm-wrestling match? Or when you were giving me and Pedro a ride home and were playing that music so loudly that Colin came out into the parking lot and made that _face_ —oh, yeah, you’re doing a movie together, right?”

Rolling over on the bed, Taron just barely stops himself from groaning into the speaker, sitting up to turn on the light above the nightstand, clock blinking its red numbers. After he hangs up, he really should eat, but the thought of food makes his stomach curl.  

“Uh. Yeah,” Taron hedges, trying for a casual tone.  

Ed clearly doesn’t buy it, now sounding apprehensive: “So…how’s that going?”

This time, the groan slips out.  

“That good, huh?” his friend pauses. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

“No,” Taron says, then, “Today, Colin was—“

And he’s off, talking poor Ed’s ear off about the shooting today, the tension between him and Colin, his own loneliness and frustration with it all. Ed contributes nothing more than grunts and _ooh_ s and _that’s pretty rough, mate_ s. Everything that’s been bottled up these past months—he refuses to think it’s all something that’s been lurking underneath the surface for years—comes pouring out, and he’s barely aware of the time passing. Every time Taron pauses for breath, he thinks about how late it is and how Ed must be tired of all of this and this is really something he should be working out by himself, but he can’t seem to stop.   

“…I have to move on, don’t I?” Taron finally asks, well aware that Ed’s veering from the sympathetic murmuring stage to the absentminded _mm-hm_ stage. “I’ve been carrying this torch for years, and I just have to accept that it’s just not realistic. Colin doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Once he leaves this movie project, once he moves on to the next one, it’ll be over—or so Taron would like to think. In reality, especially if the third _Kingsman_ movie does happen, his emotions will just be a shackle connecting him to Colin. He’s tortured himself like this for too long, dwelling on the _what if_ s and the _if only_ s.

There’s a long pause, then Ed says, “Oh, Taron. You’re a mess.”

Taron can only laugh, ignoring the wetness in his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, right?”

* * *

The next few days are horrible. Instead of sleep settling things into nice, manageable packets of emotion he can compartmentalize, anger and hurt and frustration burn in his chest, ready to spring out at a moment’s notice. It’s like when he tried to quit smoking: tamping down the urge after a stressful day, ignoring the momentary disappointment when his fingers slipped into a jacket pocket for cigarettes that weren’t there, and breathing in smoke from a passer-by and thinking, _no._

Every time he sees Colin, he focuses on the same mantra: _no, no, no._

Luckily for him, though, he’s not scheduled for a lot of scenes with Colin for a while, so the time apart acts as both balm and something left to simmer. As always, he’s polite and cooperative and willing to do his best, hitting his marks and delivering lines. It’s almost soothing to slip into the skin of Ernest Nightingale and leave Taron Egerton behind, but there are moments when he’s reminded Colin—no, _Nathaniel_ —is here, too.

But soon, too soon, Taron’s called in, tugging quickly at his jumpsuit, out into an empty street. Breakaway glass is strewn in a haphazard pattern across the sidewalks and asphalt, while overturned cars and the occasional hint of green screen add to the chaos. Someone hands him a weapon—silver and a little heavy and flashy enough to be easily recognizable—and the director’s calling for “places, places!”

On the other side of the street is Colin.

Taron knows this scene: he saves Colin’s character from the villain’s attack, and instead of smiling when Colin breathlessly thanks him, Taron shoots him with the blaster, sending Colin sprawling onto the asphalt. A fast-paced fight scene will ensue: Colin defending, Taron attacking, Colin shouting useless platitudes, Taron taking advantage and landing a blow—

Saying nothing, Taron bounces on the balls of his feet. A while ago, he would have called out a greeting or joked about the clinging nature of their respective suits, but he can’t pretend easy friendliness or camaraderie. He’s not Taron Egerton. He’s Ernest Nightingale. He’s—

“And _action!”_

With a well-executed tumble, Colin falls onto a safety mat, gasping, as Taron sprints in order to get between him and the imaginary death ray. Colin’s ordinarily tidy hair is in complete disarray, his costume has artful tears, and his skin is flushed with pretend sweat and the bright red of fake blood. He looks up, up to where Taron’s standing over him, brandishing his weapon.

“Ernest—” Colin gasps, stunned and full of awe. “Thank y—”

Squeezing the trigger, Taron fires, and Colin once again, with the help of wires, dramatically sprawls onto another safety mat, clutching his chest. Triumphantly, Taron advances, raising his weapon and stopping just a few feet away from the fallen man.  

“I’m tired of keeping secrets,” Taron declares, low enough to be scary-calm and loud enough for his mic to pick up. He then spreads his arms, closing his eyes slightly against the sudden burst of the wind machine lifting his hair and blowing it around his face. “I’m not your weak, simpering, little assistant any more, as you’re no longer the brave, faceless hero of this city!” A spot in his chest unwinds and tightens as he, powerful and invulnerable, looks down at Colin, helpless on the ground. “This is what I am, Colin! This is what I am!”

_“Cut!”_

_What?_ Taron wonders, then—

“Oh,” he says stupidly. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right,” the director says, though his expression looks puzzled, and no wonder. It’s an elementary mistake, Taron knows, and he ducks his head, avoiding Colin when he picks himself off the ground.

The second take, Taron makes sure to emphasize the right name. It comes out bitter and focused and seething, but—

“This isn’t _you_ ,” Colin declares, so sure, but his eyes flicker from the blaster to the hand still on his wounded chest. “Ernest, don’t—“

“Don’t call me by that name!” Taron snaps, still keyed up from his earlier mistake. His fingers tremble, causing the weapon to shiver in his hold. “I mean nothing to you, and you mean nothing—” He chokes. “Nothing to—“ _Nothing to me,_ the script orders.

But Taron can’t say it.

Acting is a form of lying. It’s saying and doing things you don’t mean. Geoff never wanted to bring the cleaver down on Taron’s neck, Samantha isn’t Taron’s mum, and Taron doesn’t think Colin’s a fucking freak. It’s _acting_.

He’s aware of the wind beating against his exposed skin, the weapon still clenched in his fist, Colin’s surprise morphing into confusion and concern.

 _No,_ Taron thinks, _no._ He parts his lips to finish his line—

_“Cut!”_

“I’m sorry,” Taron quickly apologizes again, “I’m sorry, I—”

“Taron,” the director says gently. “Take ten, huh?”

“I can do it,” Taron insists. He won’t look at Colin. He won’t. “Please, I just—I mean—” His protests die on his tongue when he realizes everyone’s staring. He tries not to listen to the whispering. _It’s not about you,_ he thinks, _it’s not._

The director repeats his name, looking sympathetic. “Look, just...take a walk, splash some water on your face, and come back. Okay?”

Taron’s cheeks burn, but he nods. “Okay,” he agrees.

Giving him a nod, the director leaves, and Taron’s left out in the open, aware of the sweat enclosed in his costume, the extras milling around him, the wind machine still blowing in his face, and the ridiculous blaster in his hand.

And Colin.

He’ll always be aware of Colin.

“Taron,” Colin now says, stepping forward.

Taron wordlessly stares back at him. _No._

“Follow me?” Colin asks, then quieter: “please?”

 _No._  

But he sees Colin stepping away from him in the grove of trees, glasses tucked into his shirt. He sees Colin turning towards the camera clicks and the murmuring. He sees Colin say, _Perhaps we should face the music,_ and them walking outside together.

Taron finds himself moving, feet dragging against the asphalt, and following Colin to his trailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I added another chapter! I've decided to prolong the agony. You're welcome. 
> 
> (PS I cracked up during the wind machine part. Let me never direct a movie.)


	6. Chapter 6

It’s stiflingly hot in the trailer, but Colin doesn’t open the windows or leave the trailer door ajar. Instead, he steps aside to allow Taron to climb in, then guides him toward a simple table with two chairs. Both are wooden and rickety. Some dim recollection surfaces in his memory about Colin being a carpenter, a long time before Livia, and living in a cabin, but quashes it quickly. He remembers reading some article about it when idly Googling his co-stars, then hitting the back arrow, feeling guilty about intruding on something painful and private through the eyes of some curious journalist.

Taron sits, glancing around, not ready yet to look at Colin. From what Taron can see, the trailer’s a bit cluttered with clothes, and the microwave has smudged fingerprints, but the countertops are mostly spotless, everything in its place, except for what looks like the script laying face-down near a half-empty glass of water. The curtains--really, small flaps of fabric hanging from the windows--are drawn, so the only light is from the sun, peeking through what little glass it can.

For about five minutes, they simply sit there like strangers on opposite sides of the table. Stupidly, Taron realizes that they’re both still in costume, and wishes for jeans and a t-shirt and a jacket, not this tight-fitting spandex and sticky hair gel and powdery stage make-up.

Colin is the first to break the silence. “Would you like some tea?” he asks, gesturing to the electric kettle sitting on the counter.

“No. I mean, no, thank you,” Taron quickly amends, worried he’d sounded too abrupt.

Colin’s head swivels around. “I think I have a bag of crisps lying around somewhere,” he adds, and Taron knows what he’s doing. Sure, he could accept, and they can sit around, let the sound of chewing fill the silence, and basically waste enough time so that when someone finally works up the nerve to start a conversation, they have to get back on set.

But he can’t prolong the inevitable.

This isn’t going to be dramatic--no wind machines, no spotlights, no screaming monologues at each other. Instead, it’s going to be quiet and private without so much as a script or a director to look at for guidance. He’s on his own.

Taron takes a deep breath. “What I’m going to say might screw all of this up. But please, just...don’t say anything until I’m done.” He looks Colin in the eye. “I just...I want you to know that we can just forget about this, if you want. After. I promise.”

Colin looks as if he desperately wants to say something, but only nods in response.

“You just...mean so much to me,” Taron admits, half-closing his eyes. “Before we even started filming, I was so nervous, being in this huge movie, and you were so friendly. Not that everyone else was mean or something, but you were so welcoming and kind. When you left me that voicemail before our first day of shooting, I listened to it until I could practically repeat it the next day, when I was stepping onto the set.” His voice has grown quieter, fonder, and his cheeks feel warm with every admission. He recalls some fairy tale he read to his sisters about two ladies--a kind one who had diamonds and pearls fall from her lips every time she spoke and her crueler sister, who had been punished with frogs and vipers instead--and hopes his words won’t turn into more poison and venom. Taron pulls out memories that he’s either treasured over the years or buried because of secret shame, spilling it all out to Colin in a rush.  

“...And the more we talked, the more I wanted, and I told myself I was being stupid and infatuated over someone who already had a wife and children and would never glance my way, but I couldn’t stop. After _Kingsman_ , I thought it would be the end, but it wasn’t, then after the sequel, it wasn’t, and I thought--I thought it was too long, that I needed you out of my mind. But the contest…” Taron hesitates, wishing he had accepted the cup of tea for something to do with his hands or to drink from long enough to gather his thoughts. “I know you didn’t want it spread around, what happened at the park and all, and I can’t blame you, especially after those tabloids. But I kept thinking about it, and I just thought--” _Colin without his glasses on, Colin with a hand on his shoulders, Colin inclining his head down…_ “I thought you wanted to kiss me. And I wanted it.” Taron stops, and when Colin doesn’t say anything, dread rushes into his stomach and knots it up, until he realizes what he asked of Colin before he began. “And uh, that’s it,” he finishes awkwardly.

Taron lowers his head and folds his hands on the table, ashamed, waiting for the verdict.

“I wanted to kiss you.”

Something in his chest stops. “What?”

Colin looks at him, and Taron peers up, just a little, like a kid peeking through fingers during a scary movie. “Taron, I’ve never shown that place to anyone, except for my wife.” He lets out a soft, somewhat shuddering breath. “And Livia and I…we have an arrangement.”

“What exactly are you saying?” His mind is already working up theories to what Colin’s telling him, but he has to _know_.

“Being a full-time actor is hard, and Livia’s job isn’t exactly an easy one, either. We love each other, but understand if we’re away for long periods of time that it won’t be good for either of us. We do a lot to stay in touch--phones and Skype and brief visits--but sometimes, I--we need someone to be there.” Colin’s gaze flickers to Taron’s hands. “A hand to hold, the...the warmth of a human body, someone...physically there. It’s not a carnal thing, not like that, but…” He ruefully smiles. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“I get it,” Taron says, and he does, remembering tracking the loneliness during his months away from home.

“I knew that the more I got to know you, the more I wanted…” Colin pauses, his voice getting quieter. “You. And I knew that while Livia wouldn’t mind, I couldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t sure what you wanted, and the more I turned it in my mind, the more I realized that I couldn’t force you into making such a big decision. You were going places--you _are_ going places--and I couldn’t stand in your way by saddling you with a secret to keep for the rest of your life, whether you turned me down or not.”

“But you almost kissed me,” Taron says, trying not to sound accusing.

“I did, and…” Colin sighs. “I could have kicked myself when I saw those tabloids, the result of my own carelessness, and I’m sorry. But I talked to Livia, went over it myself, and I thought that if _you_ didn’t mind, we could try it. Go on a proper date, maybe. Then…”

“I fucked it all up, huh?” Taron grimaces at the memory, his own frantic wish to deny everything to stall further embarrassment and future trouble for him and Colin. “I thought you…I didn’t want _your_ reputation to be ruined,” he admits. “Ironic, huh?”

“We have indeed acted foolishly. Mostly me. And I...I…” Colin stutters, momentarily moving his lips without saying anything.

He gives up, and takes Taron’s hand.

Taron pauses. It feels...it feels... _nice._ Other than that, he doesn’t know how else to describe it. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely--”

“Taron.” The fingers curl around his, then squeeze. “I’m sure.” Then, “May I…?”

“Yes,” Taron breathes.

Ridiculously, he finds them both standing, his own arms at his sides. Colin places both hands on his shoulders, rubbing up and down his upper arms, then back up to his shoulders, slowly, gently.

“You’re so stiff,” Colin murmurs. “Relax.”

When he does, Colin takes both hands off his shoulders.

Taron lifts his chin, closing his eyes ever so slightly, as Colin leans down, lips hovering over his.

He’s read somewhere that Colin kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row and has, rather guiltily, analyzed a number of times about what it could mean. He’s pictured a lot of teeth and tongue, hands scrabbling up his back and rucking up his shirt, his own knees weakening as his hands wound around Colin’s shoulders tighten for a better grip. In his dreams, the kind that slipped away so quickly upon waking, he would still feel tingling on his lips, like some long-forgotten sensation.

It’s the exact opposite of what he’s imagined.

One thing Taron notices when Colin Firth kisses him is that he doesn’t move his arms. Taron does--clutching his shoulders, then roaming slowly downwards to grip his upper arms, elbows, waist--but Colin seems to hold him anyways. Colin presses into his mouth, like trying to anchor himself, and Taron, rocking a little on his heels, does the same.

There’s not a lot of tongue or teeth. No hair or clothes is pulled. No one hisses furtive words of desire and declaration.

But it’s sweet, so slow that Taron hasn't realized that they started moving until the back of his knees hit the back of a cot.

“Oh,” Taron says.

And it seems like after that, they know what to do.

Taron sits, hard, and Colin follows suit. The cot creaks, but they don't stop kissing. Colin’s hand migrates to cup the back of his neck, while Taron’s snake around Colin’s, fingers brushing pomaded hair. He hates his suit, the skin-tight fabric, when he moves his arms and his legs to settle comfortably on the cot, but forgets it for a while when Colin begins to coax his mouth open. Taron wonders if the tiny chip from his tooth from clipping it in a RADA stage combat class would bother Colin, then worries about that the last thing he ate had onions. But the more Colin kisses him, Taron concludes that he must not really mind, and  _he_ should stop worrying for once. 

He kisses back, secretly delighting in the tiny shiver when his tongue brushes the roof of Colin's mouth. Colin's fingers are long and nimble, but they hold steady on Taron's arm the entire time, pressing into the fabric and the skin, and--

Three hard raps on the trailer door startle them into breaking apart at last, and Colin asks, a bit breathlessly, “Yes?”

“Please be ready on the set soon!” someone calls. 

Taron listens to the footsteps walking away as Colin runs his fingers quickly through his hair and tugs at his costume. He's not as pin-perfect as he was on the set, but passable enough. Taron knows he should be doing the same thing, but when his eyes drift while checking out his reflection in one of the windows, all he can do is smile at Colin. 

Colin meets his gaze and smiles back. 

“Ready to get out there?” he asks.

“Not yet,” Taron replies honestly. 

"We do have to come out some time." Despite his logical answer, Colin's eyes hold a spark of reluctance. Almost rebellion, Taron thinks, and briefly entertains the idea of staying in here, not having  _this_ on his mind all day and waiting for the end of shooting to continue what started in the trailer. 

But Colin's right. They do have to go.

"I guess," Taron sighs, standing up. "But if we go back out, I want a favor." 

Colin laughs, following him to the door. "What do you need?"

"Go out with me," Taron says, feeling giddy with recklessness. "I don't care if it's a pub or your place or mine. Just as long as its just the two of us. Tonight."

Before reaching out to push open the trailer door, Colin nods, still smiling. "Agreed."

* * *

“You know,” Taron says, when he walks through the door. Outside, the sky is already beginning to mute and turn soft colors of candlelight yellow and orange, beautiful against the tall trees and spacious windows. “I can’t believe Matthew’s considering a third movie, since he never does sequels, but it looks like he’s actually serious about it.” His fingers trail lightly over the couch, then Colin’s shoulders, before he leans down and gives him a quick kiss. “He said there’s going to be even _more_ action scenes than the last one.”

Looking up from his phone, where a trailer from the superhero movie is playing, Colin smiles. “I’m not complaining.” He pauses. “Except, perhaps, when the physical training starts again.”

“Guess this means my pizza and beer days are numbered,” Taron mourns, thinking of weeks and weeks of salad and baked chicken ahead of him. He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, searching for something that would make his personal trainer wince and his own stomach satisfied. “Do you still have that cheesecake from the other day?”

“Ate it,” Colin replies. “Did you have lunch with Matthew?”

“Nah, just coffee.”

“Then you should eat.”

Taron smirks. _Bossy._ “All right, I’ll just have a…” He rifles through the fridge, brushing aside a small tub of yogurt and a marinating steak. “Sandwich.”

“I’d like one, too.”

Taron playfully rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.” He pulls out what he needs and begins assembling the ingredients on the counter. “Remember when we were shooting _Kingsman_ , you’d always want something I got? Like a chicken wrap or tea or anything?”

Although Taron can’t see Colin right now, he’s pretty sure Colin is rolling his eyes. “Are you also going to bring up the time with the mushy pea?”

“Always.” He plates his sandwich, then Colin’s, then plops onto the couch beside Colin, who puts his arm around his shoulders. Settling into Colin’s touch, Taron momentarily closes his eyes, simply soaking in this moment together.

They have to be careful, of course. It’s an entirely new stage of their relationship, and they’ve worked out a test run, of sorts: not going into the limelight, yet not completely staying out of it. They go out together to plays and restaurants and premieres--sometimes with friends, sometimes not. Taron’s still toying with the idea of bringing Colin to Ed’s wedding, but that’s months and months away. They have time to think about it.

Colin’s expressed that Taron one day won’t be content with this, not being able to stand on his toes to kiss him or slip his hand into his while walking down the street, but so far, Taron’s able to stand it. It’s not perfect; Livia’s the only person who knows about him and Colin. He can’t tell Ed or Sophie or Sofia or his other mates about his latest date, can’t bring around Colin to meet his family as more than a friend and co-worker, or can’t slyly drop hints to an interviewer about not being single anymore.

But there are benefits to what he and Colin call _the arrangement_. If Taron was in a normal relationship, people would be dissecting it and picking it apart through Google searches and tabloid photos, but here, Taron’s shielded from that. Instead of his and Colin’s relationship having a shroud of secrecy of lies about each other’s affection between them, they’re now both honest and open about what they mean to each other. Years upon years of uncertainty and guilt have disappeared at last.

Tonight, they’ll get up, cook dinner side-by-side, eat it while watching a movie from Colin’s extensive DVD collection, and go to bed, and Taron’s looking forward to it all--to not just being able to finally, finally kiss Colin and be free with roving hands, but to be _with_ him in such easy intimacy. In their months apart due to various misunderstandings, Taron’s missed his friend, his mentor, his confidant, and he’s happy to have it all back--and more.

“Taron?” Colin now asks, nodding to his uneaten sandwich on his lap. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“They’re all about you, as per usual,” Taron replies, turning his head to press his lips against Colin’s. Colin’s hand closes around his knee, glasses pressing slightly into his face, and his curls tickle his brow.

It’s enough to sit on this couch and kiss Colin, so Taron continues to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all to reading my first firtherton fic! It's been a bit of a bumpy ride, and I'm both sad and excited to be finished! This will probably be my last fic about the trials and tribulations of Colin Firth and Taron Egerton...perhaps.

**Author's Note:**

> (buries face in hands)


End file.
